


Life of the Party

by penguinsledding



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: (basically lardo shitty and jack are all the same age), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Single Dad, I had to do some timeline finagling to make this work, Jack never went to Samwell, M/M, NHL Player Jack Zimmermann, Single Parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 00:30:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20787614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penguinsledding/pseuds/penguinsledding
Summary: When Jack’s son August turns eight years old, Jack decides to commission a cake from August’s favorite vlogger. Lucky for him, Eric Bittle is based in Providence.





	Life of the Party

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, this all began because I wanted to write a Single Dad AU where the mom didn't vanish into thin air within the first five minutes, and then it was so much fun that I just didn't stop. I hope you like it half as much as I liked writing it.

When Jack first heard about Eric Bittle, he was standing at the back of Larissa’s car, unloading half a dozen bags of kleenexes, number two pencils, and washable markers. His son, August, bounced out the back seat and brushed past Jack. He was starting the third grade that month. His face was buried in his iPad. 

“Bud?” Jack called. “What did we say about screen time?”

August didn’t even slow down. “Mom said I could watch Check Please when we got home,” he called back. He gestured with one hand towards Jack’s three bedroom. “Home!”

Jack turned to Larissa, who was leaning against the car, her hair tied back. “I did say that,” she admitted. Jack shook his head.

“What’s Check Please?”

“Some baking vlog,” she said. “He’s obsessed.”

“I didn’t know that,” Jack said. Since the start of the pre-season, he'd been busy. Too busy. His eyes flicked back to the house, and Larissa gave him one of her mom looks, up from under her eyebrows.

“He found it last weekend,” she said. “Some Southern guy obsessed with pie. It’s alright. At least, it’s better than that month he spent watching Frozen fourteen times a day.”

Jack nodded. Larissa was good at this, at knowing what not to say when Jack got worried. He had first met her at a party in Boston, t-minus two months until the draft. She was pretty and funny and half Jack’s size, and Kenny’d spent the whole night complaining about her beating him in beer pong. Jack didn’t care. Jack had spent his whole night watching Kenny flirt with half the population of Massachusetts. He went out to the porch, where Larissa was nursing a Natty Light. She cracked a joke about the noise inside, and he kind of laughed. It wasn’t awkward when they drifted back into silence. He asked her about her shirt; _ Samwell, right? My mom went there. _ The strap of her tank top had slid down her arm. _ I’m going in the fall, _ she said _ . _ When he fixed the sleeve, she shivered, and he could see the hard line of her nipples through the fabric. Jack stuttered through another few lines of conversation, and she put her hand on his arm. She tilted her head towards him, dark hair, round jaw, so different than… well. She was different. She stood on her toes, and he leaned down, and then they were kissing, kissing, kissing until they stumbled back into Jack’s rental car. Six weeks later, she’d had to track down his agency’s information just to get a hold of him.

She was pregnant. Jack had two weeks until the draft, and some girl in Boston was pregnant with his baby. It was bad. He couldn’t breathe right; couldn’t think. He was on the road with only three pills left. When they didn’t help, he called his dad. 

In the end, Larissa didn’t go to college, and Jack took two years off. When he did finally sign, it was with a middling expansion team, the Falconers, not exactly what he’d spent his life imagining. But the team was nice. They were nice, and good with the potential to be better, and Providence was within driving distance from Larissa’s family. It was a good fit.

They’d never dated. He was lucky that way— no painful break-up, no custody battles. That first year, they’d shared a two-bedroom and spent every night sitting in silence in front of the TV, volume turned all the way down, subtitles on, trying desperately not to wake the baby. She got a job at some craft place where suburban moms went to get drunk and do paint-by-numbers. He threw August up in the air and blew raspberries in his stomach and spent every morning at the rink, trying desperately not to fall behind. His first year in the NHL, she kept him moving. Her warm hand on his back and quiet breath against the back of his neck. He bought her expensive paints for every holiday, and she hung her work in local coffee shops and was even featured in a gallery exhibition on defining masculinity. The piece was a giant sculpture of a studded jockstrap.

They’d only really fought once, when August was six and Jack wanted to sign him up for hockey. Larissa had said no. Jack hadn’t understood. His voice rose. _ I played hockey, _ he said, _ I turned out fine, _ and Larissa crossed her arms. It pissed him off. He got louder. He’d played hockey; he was fine. Didn’t she think he was fine? Their Tuesday trade-off was frosty at best, even with August babbling between them. Afterwards, Jack's therapist encouraged them to try family counseling. The year went on. August did not join hockey, though they agreed that he could try it later if that’s what he wanted. Instead, he fingerpainted and tripped over the ball in peewee soccer.

Lately, August had been watching cooking vlogs. Recipe videos and restaurant reviews and this one British baked goods show that Jack thought was pretty good, actually. But Check Please was August’s favorite. He even liked the rambly episodes about jam. More than once, he’d made Jack stumble through some recipe with him. The treats had way too much butter for Jack’s meal plan, but August’s latticework was always nice and neat. He was a neat kid. That February was his ninth birthday party, and he had invited no less than 37 people. It was January, and Jack and Larissa hadn’t even begun planning.

“I’m thinking we go corporate,” Larissa said. Jack tilted his head, pressing his phone closer to his ear. August always ragged on them for calling each other, but Jack thought that was what phones were for. “Take them to Chuck-E-Cheese or something, invite the parents. We can just sit back and count presents.”

“Sounds good,” Jack said. His brow wrinkled. “40 kids plus parents, that’s way too many for reservations. Should we just rent out a whole place?”

Larissa sighed. “Maybe.” Jack knew she hated when he spent money like this; it was one of the things they’d talked about in counseling. They made it work. When it was best for August, she let it slide.

“Oh! I forgot to mention,” she said. “I totally have an in with Bitty.”

“Who?”

“Check Please.”

“Oh,” Jack said. The blonde baker; he should’ve known that.

“Yeah, Shitty knows him.”

“Shitty?”

“The lawyer,” Larissa said. Jack looked down at the wood of the table. She’d told him something about this, the guy who’d let her paint across his chest on their second date. Jack trusted Lardo. Really, he did. But people had never been very nice about his son. He and Larissa were 18 when they had August, and people treated them like they treated teenagers who had children. Jack got protective. He got paranoid.

He wanted to be better. At the very least, he wanted to be less fucking awful. But there it was, in his head already. The image of Shitty, the stranger, standing over his son, staring down at him as he watched his iPad. The million things that could go wrong, all the reasons Jack himself had never even tried to date. It felt very important to know how, exactly, the baking vlog had entered their conversations.

“How’d Check Please come up?”

“August’s account was still open on my computer when Shitty came over last night,” Larissa said. “Wanna hear about the baker now?”

“Yes,” Jack said. “Sorry.”

“We’re good,” she said. “Shitty went to college with the guy. Turns out he lives in Providence.“

“Really?” Jack thought of his drawl, his constant tan, his sun-bleached hair. “That’s…”

“I know.”

“Well, it’s good for us. We should talk to him about the cake.”

“You read my mind.”

“Can Shitty give us his phone number? Also, do I really have to call him Shitty?”

Lardo laughed a little. “He doesn’t go by anything else.”

Jack took note of that — it’d be the first thing they’d talk about if Shitty ever met August.

“So we can give him a call this week?”

“Better,” Larissa said. “Bittle invited us to his dinner party this Wednesday. Well, really he invited Shitty, but Shitty cordially insisted that we come too. Apparently, Bits is happy to have us.”

Jack leaned back in his seat. It was his night with August. He’d have to get a sitter, and he tried not to do that during the season.

“You don’t have to come,” Larissa said. “I can rough it, but— I don’t know. You and Shitty should meet sometime, or something.”

“Huh,” Jack said. It had been a long time since Larissa had wanted him to meet anyone, not since the green-haired girl who’d eventually moved to New York. And it wasn’t like Jack would be ignoring August. The cake was for him. He imagined his son’s face that February when they wheeled the cake in, his mouth open, his hands pressed to his round cheeks. It would be worth it. Even after spending the whole night with strangers, it would be worth it.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll be there.”

_/_/ _/

“So,” Jack said. He crossed his arms and put on his best dad glare. “Shitty, is it?”

“Hey, man!” Shitty took another step forward, and Jack thought he was just walking inside, but he was pulling Jack into a hug, clapping him loudly on the back. Jack’s arms didn’t move. Behind them, Larissa stifled a laugh. “It’s so good to meet you,” Shitty said.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “Do you know CPR?”

“Ha, Lards said you’d be intense.”

“Lards?”

“That’s me,” Larissa said. “He nicknamed me Lardo.”

Jack turned to her. “Why?”

“It’s a hockey nickname,” Shitty said, and Jack’s head swiveled back around. “I got mine at Samwell, and Lardo told me she’d planned on going, so it was only right she got her due.”

Samwell was still a sore subject for Jack. He and Larissa had talked about her going back to school, but August was young, and she was working. He’d tried to offer money so she could quit her job; she’d given him a shriveling look. The conversation ended there.

Jack thought he’d go with the topic less likely to induce crushing guilt.

“You played hockey?” he said.

“NCAA— first division, third string,” Shitty said. “Nothing like you. That’s how I know Bitty.”

“_ He _played hockey?” Jack thought of the short boy in those videos, his lean arms, his decidedly unbroken nose.

“Yeah,” Shitty said. “We all did.”

Jack turned to Larissa, and she put her hands up. So everyone at this dinner party would be a hockey fan. That was fine. Jack would be totally fine.

“Hardly ever have time to catch a game now, though,” Shitty said. “Fucking law, man.”

Shaking his head, Shitty spotted the photos in Jack’s entryway and perked up. He wandered off, a golden retriever fixated on something shiny. He stopped in front of a picture of August, and Jack’s stomach went trash compactor. He tried to smile.

“Now there’s a beaut,” Shitty said. He looked back at Jack. “Not that any of us are surprised.”

Jack forced a smile. August was at his cousin Hieu’s, playing some violent video game. Jack was fine. “How did you two meet?”

Larissa put her hand on Jack’s arm. “Remember that charity auction a few months ago?”

“I was totally obsessed with her work,” Shitty said. “That fucking shifting painting thing with the silhouette?”

“Self-Portrait with Tabloid,” Jack said. It had been his favorite too.

“Yeah,” Shitty said. “It blew my mind, and now it lives in my living room. Speaking of…” He gestured towards the rest of Jack’s house. They’d planned to have a drink before heading to Bittle’s, and Jack hadn’t even let him past the entryway.

“Oh,” he said. “Come in.”

_/ _/ _/

Jack was almost done with his beer when he realized he actually liked Shitty. He was loud and grabby and wouldn’t use his coaster, but he made Jack laugh. On their way to the car, Jack gave Larissa an awkward fistbump. She rolled her eyes, but he could tell she was pleased, even when Shitty sang along to Top 40 all the way to Bittle’s house. The place was nice — smallish, but not tiny. It had flower boxes in the window and half a dozen cars in the driveway. A brunette opened the door. 

“Hey,” she said.

“He-ey, Farmer,” Shitty said, pushing past her to enter the house. “Daddy’s home, boys!”

Jack looked at Larissa, who shrugged, suppressing a grin. The woman at the door rolled her eyes.

“Since he graduated, he’s been such a lightweight,” she said. “Hi, I’m Caitlyn.”

“Larissa.” She nudged Jack, who was staring at the sunflowers on the wallpaper.

“Oh, uh, I’m Jack.” He gestured to the entryway — stairs, a nice-looking wood shelf thing for shoes, warm light. “Do you live here?”

“Oh no,” Caitlyn said. She took a step back. “This is all Bittle’s. Speaking of which, he’ll kill me if I don’t invite you two in. He’s already heart-broken that he can’t greet you himself.”

“Is he not here?”

“He won’t leave his roast alone. Tell you the truth, he’s right to do it. I wouldn’t trust anyone here to resist a bite, and that includes myself.”

“Ha,” Jack said. Caitlyn ushered him inside, gesturing as she went.

"Bathroom's to your left," she said. "And living room's to the right."

Jack turned to look where she pointed and found half a dozen ex-hockey players staring at him through the open doorway. He had the strange sense of himself as one of those prairie dogs on the nature channel, stilling at the sight of a camera. The chatter slowed. Next to him, Larissa offered a sympathetic grimace. Across the room, a blonde guy took a step back, towards his friend.

"Rans,” he said, clearly intending to whisper. “Did Shitty tell _ you _that Lardo’s baby daddy was an actual fucking NHL star?”

Jack wasn’t sure if he was supposed to acknowledge hearing that. The other dude turned to him, talking out the side of his mouth, hand in front of his lips, still maintaining a perfectly normal volume.

“Are you kidding me, man? If I knew, you think I’d have come wearing _ this _?”

Jack wasn’t sure what was wrong with the guy’s pink shorts, but Larissa had once accused him of dressing like the Hamburgler on Casual Friday.

“Boys,” someone called, hand pushing through the crowd. “Give them some space!”

Bittle sounded just like his videos, but he was taller than he’d seemed. Not in comparison to the blonde dude, but in general. His eyes kept flicking to the kitchen door, but he offered Jack a sympathetic smile. His mouth was nice. Kind, Jack meant. Kind.

“Welcome, Jack,” he said. “Sorry about the local wildlife— I’ve spent the last eight years trying to teach them manners, but there’s not much progress.”

“Ah, Bits!” Shitty wrapped an arm around Bittle’s neck, pulling him down into a noogie. Jack wondered if Shitty was ever not touching someone. “We’re just excited,” Shitty said, releasing him. Bittle scrambled to fix his hair, but it wouldn’t be smoothed.

“Rightfully,” Bittle said. He wiped his hands on his apron, one slipping into the pocket. “Jack, Larissa, drinks are on the bar cart, and snacks are laid out on the table. I recommend you get to them before these beasts finish ‘em off.” Bittle pulled a wooden spoon from the pocket and turned to the rest of the team. “Be nice, boys.”

“Yes, cap’n,” said one, mock-saluting him. He turned to Jack. “I’m Nursey.”

By the time the appetizer plate was empty, Jack had learned almost everyone’s name. Larissa already knew a few of them; she’d promised Holster a rematch in beer pong. Jack didn’t know she still played.

Bittle stepped out from the kitchen. There was a streak of sauce up his muscled forearm, and he had a look in his eyes like he’d just run a marathon. “It’s ready,” he said. The boys beelined to the table.

Dinner was nice. Bittle had a whole seating chart drawn up, and Jack was between Larissa and the quieter dude, Dex. Tango was all the way down the table, thank God. Jack wasn’t sure he could deal with the ramblings of a constantly curious undergraduate. Bittle sat across from him.

Jack had planned to be good, to make small talk, to be friendly. As soon as he bit into the roast, it was a wasted effort. The food was good. Really good, not-talking good. Across from him, Bittle bounced from conversation to conversation, half-shouting down the table at Holster, laughing with Shitty, leaning over to put a hand on Larissa’s and whisper conspiratorially. Jack just ate. He ate, and he looked, ducking his head whenever Bittle met his eye, not yet ready to be pulled into the conversation. Larissa pressed their thighs together under the table, warm, and he stared helplessly at her. He wasn’t sure of the appropriate time to say _ hey, can you make our son a birthday cake? _

“That was great,” he said instead. Bittle jolted a little at the sound of his voice.

“Thank you,” Bittle said. “But just you wait. Peach pie’s up next, and it’s my specialty.”

“Oh my god,” Larissa said. “Our son’s going to be so jealous, he’s been trying to imitate your recipe for three months now.”

“Oh!” Bitty perked up. “Well I’ll just have to send you home with some leftovers. Shitty told me you had a son who baked — how old?”

He was looking at Jack. His eyes were big and brown, like a cartoon.

“Almost eight,” Jack said. Bitty pressed a hand to his chest.

“Precious,” he said.

“He’s actually having a birthday party soon,” Larissa said. “We were hoping we could convince you to add it to your schedule.”

Bitty smiled. “I don’t talk business over dinner.”

“It’s not dinner,” Jack said. “It’s dessert.”

Bitty laughed, surprised. “Alright,” he said. “Well, why don’t you help me bring these plates up to the kitchen, and you can tell me all about...”

“August,” Larissa said. She gestured for Jack to stand up, and he did, awkwardly, bumping his knees on the table.

Bittle’s kitchen was enormous. He had two ovens, an island, and a table covered in empty appetizer trays. There were pies cooling on the counter.

“Sorry it’s such a mess,” Bittle said, setting the dishes inside the sink, which looked deeper than Jack’s tub.

“It’s okay,” Jack said. He liked it, actually. It looked lived-in. There was a photo of a lake on the wall, somewhere in Massachusetts if Jack had to guess. Lots of red brick buildings in the background. “Where’s that?”

“Samwell,” Bittle said, looking surprised. “We called it the Pond, and we’d sit out there for hours. Hard to believe it now. I’ve never enjoyed doing nothing so much as I did in college.”

“I’ve never done much nothing,” Jack said. “You were on their hockey team?”

“Yeah,” Bittle said. “We were never all that good, but we made it to the playoffs a couple time. I loved it — lived in the Hockey Haus and everything. Kitchen wasn’t quite as nice as this one, though.”

“I bet the food was still good,” Jack said.

“When it wasn’t bagel bites, yeah,” Bittle said. He leaned back against the island. He’d pushed his sleeves up at dinner, and the fabric bunched against his elbows. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Jack said. He put his hand on the counter, then lifted it, rubbing the back of his neck until Bittle took pity on him.

“So,” he said. “What’s August like?”

“Mostly, he’s like Larissa,” Jack said. “Really good with people. He has all these cousins on her side of the family, and at every holiday, he’ll be bouncing around. Wrestling with Hieu until Katy comes tugging on his arm, begging him to watch her Barbie play, and he’ll do that, clapping until Yen comes and asks him to go sit with his grandma. He’s always trying to make everyone happy. Not totally like Larissa, I guess. Fair warning, if you decide to do this, you’ll have to bake quite the cake. His invite list is already up to 53.”

“Huh,” Bittle said.

Jack looked down at the tile floor — blue and white. “That was too much.”

“No, no,” Bittle said. “It was sweet, it’s just— I meant what does he _ like, _you know? Dinosaurs, cars… for the cake."

“Oh.” Jack ran a hand through his hair. “I mean, soccer? Baking? Larissa and I are getting him these edible paints…”

“Alright,” Bittle said. He put his hand on Jack’s arm. “I think I can work something out.”

Jack looked up. The tips of Bittle’s ears were red from the heat of the kitchen, his mouth pulled into a slight smile.

“Great,” Jack said. “Great.”

Bittle turned towards the pie dishes, moving to hand him one. “And fair warning, Jack— my cakes can be kind of expensive. I could offer you my friends discount—“

“Oh, no,” Jack said. Bittle started, a little surprised, and Jack rushed to continue.. “Not that we’re not— we could be friends, it’s just. We don’t need a discount. You can just send me an invoice.”

“Alright then,” Bittle said, smiling slow. “I'll send you an invoice. Now hurry up— when there’s no food, Holster’s been known to chew on furniture.”

Jack wasn’t sure if he was joking. 

_/ _/ _/

Bittle was texting him.

That wasn’t super surprising — he needed updates on the guest list. What was weird was that Jack was texting him back.

_ Another four for the list, _ he said. _ August told Larissa’s grandmother that she could bring her friends from the nursing home. _

His phone buzzed in half a second. _ Now that’s just good manners, _Bittle said.

Jack huffed a little laugh. Next to him, Tater untied his laces. _ So what do you call this morning, then? He invited our waiter at breakfast. _

_ Did he really? _

_ The waiter was wearing a Pokemon shirt. It was inevitable. _

Jack looked up from his phone. “What?”

“Nothing,” Tater said, still smiling. Jack frowned. Three hours later, his phone beeped. It was a photo with no less than four boxes of butter.

_ Starting preparations! _ Bittle said. _ Thoughts?  
_

_ I would ask if this was a joke, _ Jack said. _ But I’ve made your recipes before. _

Bittle sent back a little surprised emoji. _ Pics or it didn’t happen. _

Jack sent a photo of his kitchen counter instead: an open jug of protein powder and several grilled chicken breasts.

_I know that didn't come from my kitchen,_ Bittle said._ Please don’t tell me that’s how August eats._

August was at his mom’s. Usually, Jack would be puttering around the house, History Channel on in the background, looking for chores to fill the time. Bittle probably never ran out of things to do. Jack imagined him, standing at his kitchen counter, holding his phone with one hand, the other mixing dough. Jack smiled.

_ August won’t eat anything that’s not shaped like an animal. Also, he’s gone pescatarian. _

_ If he goes vegan, you’ll have to find another baker. When did this happen? _

Jack grabbed his plate and walked it to the table. _ About two weeks ago, _ he said. _ He eats mostly vegan at his mom’s, anyway, and I guess he’s on this internet web page about it. _

_ Internet web page? What era are you from? _

_ Is that not how you say it? _Jack bit his lip. He was used to pushing August’s buttons about the Internet, saying things wrong, milking his own oblivousness just to watch his son’s face twist in horror. He could picture Bittle’s mouth dropping open, the little scoff he’d made at dinner when Shitty said something about bro tanks.

_ You cannot be serious, _ Bittle said. _ Where’d he find it? _

_ It’s the site where you post videos, _ Jack said.

_ That is so not helpful. Instagram? TikTok? _

_ I know what Instagram is, _ Jack said. _ I have one. _

All discussion about vegetarianism was forgotten. _ Handle? _

_ Jackzimmermann _

_ Innovative.  
_

Jack took a bite of his green beans. _ It’s for the team. _

For the first time, Bittle didn’t respond right away. Jack ate his dinner, one bite at a time. He washed his one dish and watched 15 minutes of an episode of a television show he didn't like. It wasn’t until he noticed the red number over the Instagram app that he realized Bittle had been liking his photos. He’d liked the ones of Jack’s runs near the lake, the picture that a Falconers intern had taken after he scored a hatty, a couple of kids at charity events. In one photo of Jack, Larissa, and August after a game last year, he commented _ what a gorgeous family <3 _Jack grinned.

_/ _/ _/

It was Wednesday, and there were almost two hundred people flooding into the Dave-and-Busters-knockoff in downtown Providence. Jack wished he’d never told August to invite whoever he wanted. Larissa stood next to him, gnawing at her thumb nail.

“You’re sure you’re okay paying for this?” she said. Jack shrugged.

“It’s his birthday present “

“We should’ve been stricter,” Larissa said. “He’s going to expect this next year, too.”

“We’ll talk to him,” Jack said. “Besides, isn’t this your thing now? Keggers?”

“Kegsters,” Larissa mumbled.

“Uh-huh,” Jack said, staring pointedly at her, suppressing a smile. When she’d hired a babysitter so she could visit her boyfriend’s alma mater, he hadn’t realized she was going to party with a bunch of college kids. At least not until she sent him a drunken selfie of she and Shitty on a peeling rooftop. He’d forwarded the photo to Bittle, who'd confirmed it was the Samwell hockey house.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Larissa said.

“Like what?”

She gave him her own grimace, and he grinned.

“I’m just proud,” Jack said. “Bittle said Tango’s still talking about your kegstand.”

Larissa rolled her eyes. “Where is Bitty, anyway? I’m not sure that cake of his will fit through the double doors.”

“We’ll let him in through the loading dock,” Jack said. She laughed, and he shook his head. "He texted me this morning to meet him in the back lot at 6."

"You two've been texting a lot," Larissa said, tilting her head at him.

“Yeah,” Jack said. "So?"

She smiled. “Nothing.” She turned to the arcade. “Wanna head to the air hockey table? Been a while since I handed you your ass on a platter.”

“Whatever, Lardo,” Jack said. She won 5-2.

_/ _/ _/

Jack met Bittle out by his car, an aged four-door with a massive box in the backseat. Bittle had to crank the window lever for several seconds before the glass finally jerked down.

“Hey,” Jack said. Bittle grinned up at him.

“Hey,” he said. “Ready for your dead lifts?”

“I don’t know.” Jack looked back at the white box, which seemed dangerously close to the ceiling. “I’ve never tried a tonne before.”

“I’ll spot you,” Bittle said, opening his door. It was weird, seeing him in person. He was wearing tight jeans and a button-up, and he reached Jack’s shoulder. Jack took a half-step back to give him room, and he moved to unlock the back door.

“Manual controls,” he explained, jimmying the key. After ten seconds, two frustrated grunts, and a yelp of victory, Bittle yanked the door open.

“I’ve got it,” Jack said.

“Oh no, I was only joking—“

Jack was already leaning into the car, his hip pressed against Bittle’s. His fingers curled around the bottom of the box.

“I said I’ve got it,” he said, pulling out. The box was huge, its top touching Jack’s chin. He wasn’t sure how Bittle had gotten it into the car in the first place.

“Shitty says hello, by the way,” Bittle said. “I kind of thought he’d be here.”

Jack walked towards the back entrance. “He hasn’t met August yet.”

“Makes sense,” Bittle said. Jack looked over his shoulder and saw Bittle’s nose, wrinkled. “What would a child even call him?”

“That’s the first of many questions,” Jack agreed.

“So you’re pretty strict about that stuff,” Bittle said. He rushed ahead of Jack to open the door, propping it with a foot. “About—“ He waved a hand, vaguely. “Dating.”

Jack was struggling to get the box in through the door frame, wondering if his joke to Lardo about the loading deck had been prophetic. With a careful tilt, he pushed through.

“Look at that,” he said, beaming down at Bittle. “We made it.”

“Now to the kitchen,” Bittle said. He looked around the halls, which were somewhat sad. The employee break room was to their right, the bathrooms on the left. “I can leave it here for y’all and show you how to remove the dowels when it comes time to cut—“

“You can’t leave,” Jack said. “You have to bring the cake out.”

“Oh, but it’s a family thing.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, and Bittle crossed his arms.

“What?”

“Bittle, look at the parking lot,” Jack said. “My son has invited everyone that he has ever met, including at least six-dozen strangers. Do me a favor. Be the one person that I actually know.”

Bittle ducked his head, grinning. “Alright,” he said. “Now come on. Kitchen’s this way."

"How can you tell?"

"I can always find the kitchen," Bittle said. Jack trailed behind him, the cake box cool against his chin.

_/ _/ _/

August looked up from his Spider-Man plate and froze.

“Happy birthday!” Bittle said.

“Oh my god.” August stood up, his chair clattering to the floor behind him. “Oh my god, Papa, oh my god.”

Jack grinned from behind his camera. August looked at the lens, then back at Bittle, then at Lardo. “Mom,” he said, and his voice cracked.

“Happy birthday, bud,” Jack said. Around them, August’s guests clapped. Tater pulled Poots in for a somewhat aggressive noogie. The candles had lit Bittle gold, the hair on his arms glinting. But August just kept staring up at his cake, his hand pressed to his open mouth. The applauding subsided, and Jack could hear him whisper something about the detailing. Jack laughed a little, trying not to shake the camera.

“Come on, now, let Bittle set it down,” he said. “That thing can’t be light.”

Bittle shot Jack a look, all slanty eyed and pleased. “Oh, yeah,” August said. “Mr. Bittle, please sit, I’m so sorry—”

“That’s alright, August. And please, call me Bitty.”

_ “Bitty,” _August said, starry eyed. He turned back to Jack, half-whispering. “Bitty!”

“I know, bud,” Jack said. He gestured to the lighter on the table. “Should we get this thing going?”

August had to stand on a chair just to blow out the candles.

_/ _/ _/

As it turned out, Bittle was extremely good at arcade games. He’d destroyed Jack at pinball and crushed his high score on Pacman before insisting that they try Dance Dance Resolution. Jack was not exactly in favor of the idea. He wasn’t much of a dancer on the best of days, and even Bittle’s repeated reassurances that it _ wasn’t dancing, not really _didn’t help him.

“Come on,” Bittle said, standing on the game platform, his blonde hair backlit by the screen’s neon silhouettes. “How bad can it be?”

Jack lumbered onto the other side. As it turned out, it could be quite bad. Bittle stomped on every beat, his feet catching the arrows, hips twisting as he executed a combo. Jack seemed to have lost all dexterity. He jerked forward a second too late, the game repeatedly blaring red text at him. When he spun uselessly, trying to press three separate buttons at once, Bittle stifled a laugh. Jack’s game ended, and Bittle finished, shaking his hips a little on the last move. He turned to Jack.

“Well,” he said. “At least I know you’re honest.”

Jack laughed and wondered how the game had made him so short of breath.

_/ _/ _/

It was an hour later when Jack found his son in a corner of the arcade, sitting on the filthy carpeting. He was staring down at the star pattern, half-obscured by a stain.

“I didn’t think anyone would come over here,” August said. “Papa, were you actually going to ride the Froghopper?”

Jack looked to his right. There was a fun-sized carnival ride, about ten feet tall, skimming the ceiling. He’d seen some kids on it earlier that day, jerking up and down and howling, but the attendant had left a while ago. The area was empty. He turned back to August.

“I think it’s fun,” he said.

“Oh my god, you’re so embarrassing.” August’s head dropped to his knees. He was holding himself close, his arms wrapped around his legs. Jack took a step towards him.

“Can I give you some company, bud?”

August tilted his head, looking up a little. “Okay,” he said. “Just you, though.”

Jack nodded, and he sat down. He wrapped an arm around August’s shoulder, pulling him tight against his side. August had dark eyes, like Larissa’s, but his jaw was Jack’s. He was small like her. A lot cuter than Jack had been at his age. Better at talking to people, too, but still here, in the corner, alone at a party. They’d even found the same hiding place. Eventually, August spoke.

“Evelyn and Nick won’t stop fighting,” he said into his knees. “And Hieu’s feelings are hurt because he doesn’t know anybody here and I haven’t been hanging out with him, and Grandmere asked me to play Frogger with her, but I can’t because I told Jordyn it was our game, and—”

“That’s a lot,” Jack said. He put his cheek on August’s head.

“Yeah,” August said. He leaned into Jack’s shoulder. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Maybe nothing,” Jack said. “You’re a good friend, August. It’s a good party. Why don’t we just sit here and try a little nothing?”

August’s jaw stiffened, and Jack squeezed him tighter. “You can go play a racing game with Grandmere in a minute, okay? She won’t mind. For now, let’s just sit here, alright?”

August nodded. Jack listened to their breaths evening, syncing up. By the time they got back to the party, Larissa's grandma was celebrating her unequivocal defeat of the penny slots. Larissa had just beat Papa at go-carts, and he was sulking next to the Pac Man machine. The cake was a scrap heap, and Bittle had left. He had left, and it didn’t bother Jack at all.

_/ _/ _/

_ I had a great time last night, _ Bittle said. Jack stared down at the text, at Bittle’s name above the little blue bubble. _ Thanks for the invite <3. _

Something in Jack’s chest rolled over, warm and slow.

_/ _/ _/_  
_

He was on Bittle’s front step, cake stand in hand, before it occurred to him that this was probably a terrible idea. He looked back at his car, parked on the street, all the way down the driveway. The door opened.

“Oh, hi Jack!”

Bittle was wearing pajama shorts and a surprised look. Jack, never great at eye contact, tried not to stare at his legs. He settled for his nose instead.

“Hey Bittle,” he said. He held up the stand. “You forgot this.”

Bittle leaned against the doorframe. “Oh, no, sweetheart, that’s yours. Comes with the cake.”

“Oh,” Jack said. “That makes sense.” He didn’t turn around. Below Bittle’s nose, his smile started, slow and steady.

“I was just making cookies for Farmer’s bridal shower,” he said. “Want to come in? I’d hate to send that stand home empty.”

Jack looked down at it, all white and flowery.

“Well. If it’s not a problem.”

“Not at all,” Bittle said. He gestured Jack inside and hustled towards the kitchen. When Jack got there, Bittle was trying desperately to hide a mess of ingredients.

“Let me help,” Jack said.

“No, no! I'd never. It's just— my Mama would kill me if she knew I had guests over when the house was looking like this."

"Well, I've seen it," Jack said. "So it doesn't matter now."

“But—“

“C’mon, Bittle,” Jack said. “You don't have to clean for me.”

“Alright, then," Bittle said. He had a funny kind of look on his face, curious, and he turned to the fridge. He pulled out a bottle of something fancy and no-doubt home-brewed.

“I haven’t drank beer much since college, at least not when I have the choice,” he said. “One of my collaborators gave this to me, supposed to be pretty good. Want some?”

“Sure,” Jack said.

“Just let me grab a glass.”

Jack raised an eyebrow at Bitty. “It’s just me, remember?”

Bittle met his eye and leaned over the table, pushing the cold bottle towards Jack. His pajama shirt gaped open at the neck. When he pulled back, Jack could still see the silhouette of his fingers in the condensation.

Bittle turned back towards the oven, and Jack took a swig of the beer. It was good.

“How have you been?” Bittle said.

“Alright,” Jack said. “Busy.”

“Me too,” Bittle said. He rolled his eyes. “Valentine’s Day.”

“Lots of orders?”

“I’ve been booked for weeks,” Bittle said. “But still, everyone in the tristate radius has decided they absolutely need a pie by next Thursday. Not to mention my ex-teammates and their current relationships.”

Jack grinned a little. “Does this mean you need a list of Larissa’s dietary restrictions?”

“No, Shitty’s got his own plans,” Bittle said. “Knowing him, he’ll smoke Lardo out, and they’ll eat their way through a sweet, innocent buffet somewhere.”

“I take it that wouldn’t be good enough for you,” Jack said. “Where are you headed?”

“Oh, nowhere,” Bittle said. “I’ll be delivering all day.”

Jack took another swig of his beer.

“How’s August?” Bittle said, and Jack looked over at him. He was bent over the oven, checking the temperature. His pajama shorts were really short.

“Good,” Jack said. “Still sorting through presents.”

“While his parents sort out the thank you cards,” Bittle said, shaking his head.

Jack frowned. “We haven’t written any thank you cards.”

Bittle spun on his heels. “No thank you cards?”

“I didn’t realize people still wrote them,” Jack said.

Bittle’s mouth fell open. He was covered in flour, still in his pajamas, talking very loudly about how of _ course _people still wrote thank-you cards, and Jack realized with a sudden, terrible certainty that he had to kiss him. He took a step forward. Bittle stopped. The kitchen really was huge — it was a dozen steps around the island, to the oven where Bittle still stood, frozen, mouth open, staring up at him. Jack touched Bittle’s cheek, and his eyes closed. He leaned in to kiss him, and Bittle made this soft little sigh, his head tilting, his hands tangling in Jack’s hair. Jack pressed closer. His hands reached under Bittle’s ass, scooping him up. He tried to set him on the counter, but Bittle squealed a little, shook his head, said “No! Flour!” Jack couldn’t think, not with his hands on the bare undersides of Bitty’s thighs. He spun towards the island, which was at least a little cleaner. He hoisted Bitty up onto it and followed him with his mouth, kissing his jaw and neck and collarbone. He tugged at the fabric of Bittle’s t-shirt so he could reach lower, and Bittle leaned back, breath hitching—

“Oh!” he said. He lifted a hand, covered in egg yolk. He’d nearly knocked over the mixing bowl. “I forgot.”

Jack stared at the goop, and then he stared at Bitty, and then they were laughing. Jack ducked his head. Bittle grabbed a fistful of Jack’s shirt, leaning forward, his breath coming in giddy huffs. Together, they breathed. Jack turned to grab Bitty a paper towel, and Bitty hopped down off the counter. His face was red.

“What?” Jack said.

Bittle took the paper towels, wiping at his long fingers. “Nothing," he said. "It's just— it's probably for the best, that we stop." He forced a smile. "I don’t usually put out on the first date."

“I don’t mind," Jack said. He didn't stop to wonder whether he’d meant this to be a date.

Bitty gave him a look, all eyebrows, and Jack laughed a little. “Sorry.”

“Oh, I’m not complaining.” Bitty said. “God knows I enjoyed it, but I think we could stand to get to know each other better.”

“Oh,” Jack said. Bittle was right; they hardly knew each other. He knew the way Bittle laughed and smelled and looked as he played racing games, but he didn’t know him. He could feel the stiffness creeping into his spine. 

“Sweetheart,” Bittle said. “I didn’t mean it that way—“

“No, I know,” Jack said. He didn’t know Bittle, but Bittle knew his son. He’d met him. He’d talked and laughed and shared a scoop of ice cream, and Jack hadn’t even wondered what August would think of all of this. 

“Jack,” Bitty said. “I’m just saying maybe it should wait until a second date, you know?”

“Uh-huh,” Jack said. Bittle frowned.

“I killed the mood, didn’t I?”

“No,” Jack said. “No, I just— uh, I didn’t mean to stay this long. I have to go grab August. Just— I’ll text you, alright? I’ll text you.”

Bitty nodded. Jack left him there, standing in his sunny kitchen, dough on his elbow.

He didn’t text.

_/ _/ _/

When Jack came out of practice the next day day, Larissa was leaning against his car. She waved quick and lazy, just a flick of the hand. Tucked under her other arm were what appeared to be dozens of envelopes.

“Hey,” she said. “Someone’s been hard to get ahold of.”

“We talked last night,” Jack said. He always answered Larissa’s calls; if he didn’t, he spiraled.

“I wasn’t talking about me.” She held out the stack of envelopes. “Thank-you cards. Bittle wouldn’t stop bothering me about them, and they need your signature.”

“Oh,” Jack said. Larissa’d already addressed each one in her cramped, artist’s handwriting.

“You can put them in the mail when they’re done,” she said. “He seemed _ really _ determined to make sure you were feeling well enough to send them.” She looked at him, pointedly not moving off of his driver’s door. He shrugged, and she huffed, putting her foot up against his wheel.

“Did Bittle wrong you in some way?” she said. “Trick you into skipping leg day? Add sugar to your protein bars?”

“Ha ha.”

“Seriously.” Lardo’s arms were crossed, and Jack could swear that was the same facial expression she’d used when they made August unsubscribe to Pewdiepie. He squirmed. She just kept staring.

“I kissed him,” Jack said.

“And?”

Jack stared ahead.

“So what?” Larissa said. He leaned against the car, and she nudged him with her shoulder. They sat in silence for a while, staring out at the other cars. He watched Thirdy climb into his and took a deep breath.

“Remember when people found out about August?” he said.

“And everyone accused me of being a gold digger? Yes, Jack, I remember.”

Jack closed his eyes, but Larissa pushed on.

“And when you were signing, and that reporter followed you home? And when you won the cup—”

Jack put his hand up. He remembered. August had been five, and it was too much for him — the photos, the press, the noise. Larissa’d had to take him out of the stadium. He hadn’t gotten better. He started to cry at camera flashes, even Jack’s. It took weeks to soothe him, remind him he was safe. He’d started kindergarten that year, and on his first day, the three of them had gotten dressed together. Jack combed August’s hair carefully, and August grinned, his tongue pressing through his gap teeth. Jack stood up to grab his camera.

“We’ve gotta show Grandmére what a big boy you are,” he said. “Say cheese.”

August’s smile faltered.

“For grandmére?” he asked.

“Only for grandmére,” Jack confirmed. Next to him, Larissa squatted down, pulled him close. He nestled into her chest, his small hand curling in her shirt.

“We can take the picture together,” she said. “Is that alright?”

“Okay,” August said.

It had gotten better. Slowly, it had gotten better. August had gone to kindergarten, and Larissa hadn’t allowed him to play hockey, and they’d talked about it. They’d talked about it a lot. In therapy and in the kitchen and in the stands at August’s first soccer game. August was such a brave kid, so wild and messy, so completely Larissa. But she was right. He was Jack’s son too. And sometimes, he shook. Jack couldn’t be the one to make his life harder. He just couldn’t.

He looked down at Larissa’s face, her eyebrows tight, her eyes warm. For years, she’d been there, watching him, cheering him on at games and whining at 4 a.m. when August’s cries woke them up again. He tried to smile, but it only came out tired.

“I’m not being difficult,” Jack said. “I just know what it would mean. To be out in the NHL, to be the first one… even people who don’t care about hockey would know who I am. Who we are. I just can’t do it to him.”

“He’d get over it,” Larissa said. “He’s a pretty healthy kid, you know. He’s got half-decent parents.”

“Ha,” Jack said.

“You could get over it, too, Jack,” she said. “It would suck at first, but you could get over it too. You could handle it.”

“I guess,” Jack said. “I don’t know.”

“Well I do,” she said. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. I’m not asking you to fall in love with the guy, I’m just saying— you should have the chance to be happy. You deserve it.”

“Okay,” Jack said. “Okay, I’ll think about it.”

Larissa gave him a look. He unlocked his door, tossing the thank you cards into the passenger’s seat.

“Really,” he said. “I promise.”

_/ _/ _/

In the end, Jack left it in the mailbox. Blue envelope, card covered in unicorns. Larissa’d had to buy several sets for all their guests, and they’d already used up every halfway decent pattern. Inside, in a truly horrible cursive font, the card said _I ENJOYED THE CAKE AND THE PRESENTS TOO / BUT THE BEST PART WAS SEEING YOU._ _  
_

Below it, in his own terrible, half-illegible handwriting, Jack left a note.

_ I’m sorry for not texting, _ he said. _ But I'd still like to get to know you better. I've got a home game next weekend — any chance you're free?  
_

Bittle’d sent him a message by the morning._  
_

_/ _/ _/

It takes nine years and seven months of nebulous not-just-dating before Shitty and Lardo finally give in to the family pressure and agree to get married. It's been a real community project. Bob and Alicia had nudged her at Jack’s own wedding to Bittle seven years ago; Larissa’s mother had spent years googling why millennials had to be like this; and Shitty’s grandmother had begged him to, just this once, do the right thing for their family. Still, it was August who eventually convinced them; _ please, _ he said. _ I can’t take Grandma’s guilt trips anymore. _At seventeen, August had managed to avoid inviting his entire senior class to the wedding. He’d still requested a plus-four.

“Papa,” he says, peeking his head into Ella’s room. “Eric’s still frosting.”

Jack is two minutes into putting on Ella’s tights, and he looks up. “Of course he is.”

Ella has one hand in Jack’s hair, her legs swinging beneath her, unravelling all Jack's careful work. “My daddy bakes,” she says, proudly. Since entering kindergarten, she’s been on a big possessive kick — _ my papa _ this, _ my daddy _ that.

“Yes he does,” Jack says. “Your daddy bakes cakes so good, they may make us late for the wedding.”

“Wedding!” Ella crows. She wriggles her toes as Jack finishes with the tights. She’s in all white, the only one at the wedding who’ll be wearing it. Larissa’s dress is more cocktail than church, and they’ll be lucky if Shitty keeps his pants on.

“Please tell Bits that we’ll be leaving in 20 with or without him,” Jack says. August salutes and heads out. Jack still hasn’t quite accepted that August is going to college next fall. He’s almost the same age that Jack was when he was born.

Ella turns back towards him. “My brother’s pretty,” she says.

“Yeah,” Jack says, smoothing her dress. “Yeah, he is.”

Ella’s shoes are on when Bittle comes rushing up the stairs. He stops at the doorframe, leaning against it, frosting on his cheekbone. Jack grins.

“It’s a disaster, Jack,” he says. Ella stands, waving her hands in the air.

“Daddy,” she says, and he smiles at her, lips trembling.

“You look beautiful, sweet pea,” he says. “Go show your brother!”

“Show my brother,” Ella parrots. She practically skips out the door, and Jack stands too.

“The piping,” Bittle moans. “It totally deflated, it looks absolutely awful—“

“I saw it twenty minutes ago, and it was great,” Jack says. Eric makes a face, and Jack knows what he’s thinking— _ how would you know? _ He grins and grabs Bittle around the side, licking up the stripe of frosting on his cheek. Bittle squeals, and behind them, in the hallway, Ella laughs. In the five seconds since they'd turned away, she'd been distracted by the dog. There's fur sticking to her tights and a slobber mark on her silk ribbon.

“I’ll get the lint roller,” Bittle says, and Jack grins. He scoops Ella up and carries her downstairs, into the kitchen, where August looks guiltily up from his piping.

“What are you doing?” Jack asks.

“Fixing it,” August says. He spins the cake, and it does, in fact, look less deflated. Jack holds up his fist.

“You’re the best, bud.”

August rolls his eyes, but he still gives him a bump. 

_/ _/ _/

They’ve been at the venue for thirty minutes, and Bittle is already arguing with the food photographer.

“You have a whole dining room of natural light out there,” he says, gesturing behind him. “And you think you’ll photograph my cake in this cave? No thank you.”

Jack steers Bittle away, mouthing apologies, and the photographer dilligently rolls the cake out of the hallway into the sun. Jack is getting flashbacks to his own wedding, when Bittle’s mother handled her nerves by harassing the caterers. Jack had given all the employees cash tips that night. Bittle had made their cake, too, and served it on the stand from August's birthday party.

August pokes his head out of the back room. “We’re in here,” he says.

Inside, Ella sits on Shitty’s lap, preening as he admires her dress. Bittle walks up to the two of them, the troubles of food photography long forgotten.

“What do you think, honey?” he says, gesturing to Shitty. “Doesn’t Uncle B look handsome in his tux?”

Ella’s nose wrinkles, looking up at Shitty. She reaches up to tug at his mustache, as if to check it’s real, and then turns back to Bitty. “No,” she says. Jack snorts.

“Ouch,” Shitty says.

Larissa emerges from the snack area, where Jack’s sure she’s been scarfing down the mini-quiches. She’s wearing a red dress, silky and clinging all the way down to her ankles. She chopped off her hair for the occasion, and Jack thinks it looks nice. She turns to Shitty. “Ella’s like me,” she says. “She prefers you in tie-dye and denim.”

“Not into monkey suits, huh Ella?” Shitty says.

“Monkey,” Ella parrots.

Shitty launches promptly into his best monkey impression, and Ella laughs until she almost falls off his lap. Jack walks over to Larissa, who doesn’t say anything, just wraps her arm around Jack’s side. Jack presses a kiss into her short hair, and a photo snaps off to the side. August pushes his way in, and then they’re posing, the three of them, August making some hand gesture that’s no doubt popular with teenagers on the Internet. Ella sticks her arms up, needy, and Larissa sweeps her up.

“Daddy!” Ella says, calling for Bittle, who has been determinately adjusting the placement of the appetizers.

“Just a second, sweetie!”

“Come on, Eric,” August says. “Come on, Uncle B—“

“Oh no,” Shitty says. "I told you that name in confidence, sir.”

“Ella,” August says. “Can you say B—“

“I am going to be your stepfather!” Shitty says, pulling August up under his arm. “Aren’t you even a little bit afraid of me?”

“Absolutely not,” August says. He looks up at Jack, his dark eyes crinkling, taller than his mom, just shorter than Bittle. He looks happy, really happy. Larissa leans against Jack's arm, Ella hitched against her side. Bittle adjusts one of Ella's bobby pins, and Jack smiles.

"Come on, losers," Shitty says. "Let's go get married."


End file.
